EMILY DICKINSON AND THE BOSTON RED SOX Back

          – October 27, 2004

 

In her white cap with the scarlet B

she watches the small color TV

 

(no flat-screen, plasma, or LCD

for her, she would have you know), and she

 

much admires the home team's jerseys

and jackets, thinking, what a lovely

 

bird, the cardinal, at her feeder

that blur of passion, and how lucky

 

in a way – a strange way – they will be

now, those fans west of here, the trophy

 

so close ... Unlike those poor Yankee

stalwarts, year after year, their routine

 

champagne and ticker-tape, how truly

deprived, not knowing what desire means.

 

In fact, she's traveled to the city

only once, when she had that pesky

 

eye malady and went in to see

specialists at the Infirmary.

 

But first came the cab ride – her kindly

driver! – straight to Fenway, and the Green

 

Monster, a name she wishes keenly

she'd coined herself, for Spring, with the trees

 

out beyond the fences suddenly

looming ... And it is only envy

 

that she feels now, eyeing the melee

on the mound, the grass thinning this deep

 

in Fall, for all the dumbstruck seated

there, mute, staring at the other team –

 

her team – leaping deliriously

with their improbable victory,

 

and all of that sweet joy already

slipping away so naturally.